Uhrknall: big clang theory tolls the smell

If you think it’s taking them forever to admit the Earth’s not flat, just imagine how long it’ll be before you let go of your own illusions.

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I’m the synesthete, the anti-creature, maybe an ant, whose facts are olfactory. I don’t see the clamoring of our feet, though I perceive the pavement of the road we laid. I can’t hear the gears, though I think I hear the music past the sound in my ears.

I send, I send, I send. The transmission’s crank is constant, like the grinding voice in the teeth of my works. I think I’m thinking when, in fact, I’m just receiving what I’m sending, receiving what I’m sending, receiving what I’m sending…

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If smell is the most evocative of the senses, it is remarkable to imagine that the sound of that train whistling in the distant night air, however vague or detailed the associations it creates, might be nothing less than the result of another sense that evokes the sound; that I don’t hear, I don’t see, I certainly don’t speak, merely tune in and tune out.

Being led around by the nose is the metaphor that represents having half of one’s soul pulled out through the nostrils – the soul becoming then a sinuous tether between the vital organs and what’s pursued until the end of the journey.

O! what a smell it must take to channel visions of structures lining every path.. . buildings that don’t exist, I know now, because I didn’t build them, or that only exist because I’m the one that did.

The ultimate denial must be the acceptance of these visions.

Accepted: that I wake and I sleep and I sit and I eat.

Accepted is that I know and I don’t; that I’m headed somewhere and I know where I’m headed, and I don’t know where.

Accepted is that I wait and that I can’t.

Accepted: that butter is wrapped in thinly formed alu-paper product, costs 1.15 per kilogram, is bought in the supermarket, stored in the refrigerator, spread on a disc of meal and eaten in the kitchen. The wrapper is then thrown in the mini-dump.

The extent that the acceptance of this vision varies is whether or not the alu-paper is wadded into a tiny ball and stuffed into some other vision, or just tossed, as was, into a bag of plastic.

The aluminum emerged from a mine in my mind. However nonsensical, this is also accepted.

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Here I crawl in and out and around this mound of dirt, with my fellows – though, I like to think I reject life’s little paradigms – I assume they’re fellows, though I can scarcely prove the truth of their existence anymore or anyless than my own.

My only constant contact is with myself.

Still, this we – for this time I think “we” and choose to say “we” – pursue in and out of this mound of dirt no extraneous communication, nothing more than for the carrying out of an unknown task never complete. The tedium must be a nightmare made so much more arduous in pursuit of relief, uncertain whether or not it’s just a distraction: either the pursuit or the relief. For if I were an ant, I would certainly dream up something less dreadful than my own existence.

I take this smell for a beautiful woman – but I don’t veer from the path even though I’ve so completely forgotten I’m on it, carrying a cargo from here to there and back, that I swear that nothing I don’t see is real.

My need to identify requires categorization, and as I receive the signals that deduce the smell, I broadcast to my central notion system that even the pheromones are phony.

Of course I just made all this shit up.

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